


Collide

by arcadevia



Series: Comfort Fics [3]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Bilingual Keith (Voltron), Bilingual Lance (Voltron), Español | Spanish, Established Relationship, Fluff, Keith (Voltron) Has ADHD, Kissing, Korean Keith (Voltron), Kosmo - Freeform, Light Angst, M/M, May be part of a series, Meet-Cute, Skater Keith (Voltron), Spanish Keith (Voltron), Surfer Lance (Voltron), half and half lol, keith is lowkey rich
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:07:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25228036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arcadevia/pseuds/arcadevia
Summary: But he’s tired now. Though he can’t place what he's tired of, because the night sky and mellow waves still churn up thoughts— and yet, they’re not giddy anymore. He feels like he’s moved on for the most part, and any look into the beyond sparks the question“What happened?”rather than“What’s going to happen?”.It’s the kind of contrast between a flickering flame from a once blazing fire.He wishes at least something would happen to subside his dwindling motivation. Hell, he’d even go for another food truck incident if it meant his wits could somehow get knocked back into him. Like those movies where—AURF!”Kosmo NO!”
Relationships: Keith/Lance (Voltron)
Series: Comfort Fics [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2065521
Comments: 27
Kudos: 154
Collections: Just some pretty nice fics





	1. Chapter 1

Lance is out late surfing again.

It's an occasion where the worries that typically swarm his mind are now swallowed by the water his board seamlessly cuts through on a calm ride. He’s past the exertion now, his limbs may feel a bit wobbly but the ache has dulled away and now he’s riding out the last of his energy— both mentally and physically.

Surfing is therapeutic for him. It reels in a sense of belonging and home, from all the awards he’s won in past competitions, to days his skin stung under the unforgiving sun while wading through the water with a giddy heart and his siblings at his sides.

Some days it was all he had, because after fiery outbursts with his parents he couldn’t afford to up and run away out of pettiness, especially back when he was only seventeen. So he’d charge to the ocean and climb onto his board to face an onslaught of powerful waves— the kind he liked to think were angry along with him.

Emotions ranging from despair to euphoria are always somehow connected with his home at sea. His delight shines in the sequined glares of sunlight over the stirring water, peace with the bubbling froth that slides up the coast like a rhythmic blanket, and isolation: the best and worst sight to see, to _feel_. It’s when the town is quiet and Lance floats among a mass of stars because the night sky isn’t only an overhead dome when there’s something to mirror it’s vast mystery. 

So sure, his worries of today and tomorrow are left behind with his backpack on the beach, but the pondering of what lies ahead is inevitable. It’s terrifying, shakes Lance's soul with every wave, but it’s _addictive_. And ever since that first time he took off at midnight when he was fifteen just to lose his wits in a place he thought he’d known so well, the ball got rolling and nearly every free night he had in Varadero was a night spent relearning his own home.

He thinks he’s getting the hang of it now since the terror has subsided into tame curiosity. Right now, he’s laid back on his board, an arm and a leg wafting through the water below while his hand supports the back of his head. It's lonely in a peaceful way, quiet, save for small splashes against his board that soak the sides of his swim trunks with every gentle rock.

Between the bustling town, loud cheers from beach goers during the day, and the ruckus at home, this is the most semblance of calm he can obtain for himself. Even as he makes his way back to the shore, reveling in the last nudges of water before he can trek through the shallows’ clouds of wet sand that billow with each step. When his knees are the last of his body underwater, he hefts the board under his arm and makes his way to his backpack that sits locked and secured alongside his bike at a nearby rack. It’s chilly out, but luckily he was smart enough to pack away a sweatshirt this time. Funny how he still forgets…

_“Leandro!”_ he hears in the distance.

Beyond the pavement bordering the beach is a line of various shops, all sporting chipped paint in shades of pinks and oranges that turn pasty in the moonlight. It’s only until the tail end of the line that warm light illuminates the edges of a bar where Lance can spot Mateo, the owner, planted on the porch and sipping away at another one of those beers he’s let Lance snag every now and then just for the hell of it.

“Yeah?!” Lance calls out to Mateo and makes his way to that splotch of light that flickers at the mercy of several moths fluttering toward their only haven in town.

Mateo is built tall and sturdy, towering so high that those moths near his head may as well make for a strange and restless kind of crown. But despite his intimidating bulky stature, he’s still got a pouch of gut hanging over his belt from too many nights spent drinking to his heart's content, and a wide shameless smile to go along with it. Lance always feels a strange sense of pride when he provokes that certain grin with a few crooked teeth and smile lines that wear into deep folds from years of troublemaking. He’s hung onto seeking that approval since the first time Mateo had a hearty laugh at the sight of seven year-old Lance making grabby hands toward his father’s drink where they sat on the patio, rather than keeping to his own cup of soda, which he wasn’t necessarily allowed to have either, (at least not with his mom nearby).

But Mateo isn’t smiling right now. His thick, wiry brows are pinched and the corners of his mouth don’t lift to his crinkled eyes.

“What is it?” Lance asks again once he’s reached the patch of sand in front of the short set of steps leading up to the patio. He’s gotta get to his backpack and bike sometime soon since the evening winds are starting to pick up. They’re casting sand up his damp legs now, leaving the grains to uncomfortably stick and grind against his skin.

“I think your bike is broken again,” Mateo rumbles under a tone of defeat. He sets his bottle of beer onto one of the outside tables before thumping down the steps.

 _“What?”_ Lance asks disbelievingly.

“Apparently someone was on their skateboard and they crashed into it.” The man makes his way toward the bike rack, waving his arm to where the lone bike sits crookedly between the stands and— oh no. Oh _great_ , the chain is all fucked up again. That thing’s never secure!

He’s crashed plenty of times with that stubborn chain locking into place, the most embarrassing of which was barreling right into the back of a food truck during the market’s busiest hour. At least those other times in the neighborhood he could get a concussion in peace... He still got a free taco, though, so it’s a win. But this? This is _not_ a win. And the only person who’s managed to hook it back in place is Marco, with nimble but strong enough fingers that work till the reassuring _click_ comes around in only a few minutes.

”Damn skaters...” Lance mutters. He sets his board down and crouches low to scowl at the taunting, loose chain. If this would turn out like any of his prior attempts, he’s gonna be left with nothing but greasy, sore fingers and a still-broken bike. He’ll admit it, he needs a new one anyway, but his current money is being set aside for an actual _car,_ thus this shitty bike remains as one of the stages of hell he must endure before he finally obtains a better mode of transportation.

“I’d give you a ride home but my wife’s got the car right now so—“

“I-It’s fine, Mateo,” Lance says. “Thank you though. I only live a couple blocks away anyway.” He knows Mateo is well aware of that, but he figures the reminder can at least ease the man’s guilt.

He lets Mateo keep his board in the shop for the night —though that had been the plan anyway— and unlocks his backpack to shuck on his shoes before bringing his sorry excuse of a bike along with him on the walk home.

Nights like this make him wonder what ever happened to the adrenaline rush that used to linger with him even after hours at sea. His heart would still sputter in his chest regardless of sore feet and pruney fingers or sand stuck behind his knees and in the creases of his elbows. The excitement of both something nostalgic and something _new_ had him suspended in this place of fascinated uncertainty. Because he could scoop a handful of stars and never get used to being so close to a place infinitely far away from where he really was.

But he’s tired now. Though he can’t place what he's tired _of_ , because the night sky and mellow waves still churn up thoughts— and yet, they’re not giddy anymore. He feels like he’s moved on for the most part, and any look into the beyond sparks the question _“What happened?”_ rather than _“What’s_ going to _happen?”_. It’s the kind of contrast between a flickering flame from a once blazing fire.

He wishes at least _something_ would happen to subside his dwindling motivation. Hell, he’d even go for another food truck incident if it meant his wits could somehow get knocked back into him. Like those movies where—

_AURF!_

Lance whips his head in the direction of the commotion, his grip on the bike handles faltering in the midst of his confusion, thoroughly distracted by whatever oncoming threat has been sent his way.

_“Kosmo NO!”_

And that threat is… is that a fucking _wolf_ or something? The great, big, monstrous shadow panting through it’s slack mouth and all but _barreling_ in his direction with no sign of relent.

“AHH!” Lance shrieks, and he only has it in him to cower in the face of this sudden danger, with hunched shoulders and a pinched face. Oh _god_ , he’s gonna die from a hellhound— or a Kosmo, whatever the hell that is.

But the impact never comes. Or okay, it _does_ come, but not nearly as forceful as he was expecting. The… _creature’s_ paws soar high and almost land on Lance’s _shoulders_ , just on the higher side of his torso before swiping down from its toppling balance, likely leaving dirt tracks on Lance’s sweatshirt in their wake.

The attack doesn’t relent —could it be called an attack? When it’s by a hellhound trained with the grace of a ballet dancer, as if it’s owner wasn’t even the devil?— until a voice calls out again. Closer, gravelly and assertive. “Kosmo! _Off!_ ”

Kosmo has a few more pants and whiffs at Lance before returning to the ground. When Lance looks down to the dog, (now that he can register it as such), it’s actually quite… cute. He’s not particularly keen on dogs overall, much less knows the varying breeds. This one is dark and fluffy though, with patches of white and grey around its eyes and the frame of its head, almost like a mask of some sorts. It’s tail thumps against the pavement while peering up to Lance with eyes that shine gold from the porch lights of neighboring houses. He can’t find it in himself to really mind, his home is close after all.

“I’m so sorry,” Lance hears as someone approaches him. “He’s been in the house all day. He’s— He’s not usually like this…”

“It’s okay,” Lance lifts his gaze and is met with the sight of Kosmo’s owner: a shadowed figure in this late hour of the night, awkwardly fumbling with a bright neon leash, which is the only article on (or more like _with_ ) him that _isn’t_ some shade of black. Does this guy know how ineffective that is? “I—“

“—dunno why I’m telling you that but—“

“Uhh…”

Their voices taper down, until the only sound is Kosmo’s loud panting and the rustling of fabric where he slides against his owner’s leg.

His owner that’s really… _hot_.

The guy is awkwardly hunched over as he struggles to hook the end of the leash onto Kosmo’s collar. His hands fumble, they’re light and pale the same way the souvenir shops turn less saturated and more ghostly. Lance wonders what he looks like in the daytime; if that shaggy dark hair is actually a rich brown under the afternoon sun, or if it’s the same sight as it is now: black hair tied back in a loose bunch at the base of the man’s neck, the structure of it hard to decipher from how well strands blend together, and all Lance can see is shadow hanging around the angular face of an undoubtedly attractive guy.

Well, attractive and _awkward_ , that is.

The man straightens before breathing out a hesitant laugh, his chest deflating under the weight of tiredness from his presumably frantic run here. Lance spots a slice of white past the other’s parted lips, where the pointed tips of outlying teeth make for a strangely charming smile. He seems to almost mimic Kosmo’s endearing demeanor, albeit far more timid.

“It’s alright,” Lance finds himself repeating. His tone is slightly terse from the tension, both from being caught off guard by a giant dog and then said giant dog’s hot owner. “I just wasn’t expecting that,” he says through a chuckle to hopefully put the guy at ease.

“Yeah I don’t usually take him out at night,” the guy mutters and nervously cards a hand through his bangs.

And Lance finds himself ridiculously wonderstruck by the set of eyes that glance back to him, no longer concealed by a shadowed curtain casted by a set of bangs. They’re… They’re a color Lance feels weirdly reminiscent of, a sight he must’ve seen before that teeters the line splitting purple from blue, something that hangs in the great in between.

“Was it too hot today or…” Lance finds himself asking, though it’d probably be more fitting for him to be on his merry way. He’s at a loss for why home has suddenly become a second priority, but he suspects it has something to do with having those eyes trained on him a little longer.

“Hm? Oh— no, I was out skating with my friends and we just uh… were out for longer than usual.”

“Skating…” Lance mumbles, the bitterness in his tone a reaction he can’t help given the state of his bike. He turns his gaze downward, lost in his own discontent while glaring at the loose, useless chain, but when he looks back up to the other man, he’s met with a face of something eerily close to guilt. “Don’t tell me…”

“I guess I have two things to apologize for,” he says, and his hand comes back up to run through his hair. 

Lance takes a breath, his chest expands to make room for a snappy retort and he can already feel his face twisting under a wave of ugly resentment. This was the last straw, and whether or not his night was already disappointing before this happened, he feels a terrible urge to toss this guy under the bus and turn the blame on him.

Or he _could’ve_ done that; this _could’ve_ been the last straw, but this stranger wears a pout so painfully similar to the dog nosing at his hand and prying for attention. He’s gripping the leash and Lance recognizes a tentative, quiet apology in the way those shoulders rise under the cave of a puffy bomber jacket — _K.K._ embroidered at the chest— and he can only scrape together one in final, defeated thought:

This man isn’t at fault for the greater reason that Lance is upset. A broken bike chain isn’t the same as broken interest in the stars.

“I-I’m really sorry,” the guy says when Lance’s silence stretches longer than expected, and it seems enough to make him squirm. “The wheel caught on a rock and I crashed into the bike rack. I didn’t know how to fix it, and then this guy started shouting at me and I understand Spanish for the most part, but he was talking really fast and I got scared so I ran off…”

The apology projects a new impression onto Lance, past verbality. The hand that holds the leash is restless, with a thumb repeatedly rubbing the narrow strip of material while Kosmo pants eagerly under the other hand that scratches behind his ears. Both movements act almost secondary to the guy’s behavior, like he doesn’t even realize the smaller gears that whir through unreleased energy. Lance has a feeling the other couldn’t help coming outside, even at such a late hour, because his body is already itching to move regardless of how short this interaction has been.

“I mean, I’m not _afraid_ of Spanish I just mean this guy was really… tall? Or big—“

“Was it Mateo?” Lance asks as a way to dodge that creeping bitterness and turn it into something more considerate. “At Bar Terraza?”

“Bar Te—“ the guy mutters, his thick brows furrowing into a pondering expression that shouldn’t be nearly as cute as Lance finds it. “The one with the white roof thing?”

 _Roof thing_ , Lance chuckles to himself. “Yeah, that’s the one,” he finds himself saying with a smile. “He’s not that bad, honestly. Probably just upset seeing some guy destroying my bike.”

“I’m not that bad! It’s not like I did it on purpose or anything.”

“ _Alright_ , alright, geez I think I know that much…” Lance lifts a hand in surrender, his bike tilting its weight to the other hand.

And then he has an idea. A ridiculous idea, but it’s worth a shot. He’s not one to get all philosophical or poetic or whatever, but this guy has come charging into his life —or more like his dog did— the moment Lance longed for something more. Maybe it’s some absurd sign, Lance can turn a _“Be careful what you wish for”_ into a _“Be grateful for what’s coming”_.

So Lance looks mister dog dude, plus said dog, up and down and makes an offer. “But maybe you can make it up to me.”

His message doesn’t seem to register immediately when it lands on glazed eyes and an expression Lance would dare to call _soft_. The man is resting at the will of whatever thought has washed over him, his brows no longer drawn together, lips folded over that peak of teeth Lance already finds himself missing, but the motions of his hands stay active— grounding.

And when it _does_ register, like a twing to this guy's forehead right between the bangs that have already spilled back to the frame of his face like water flowering from the centerpiece of a fountain— it’s _just_ off center enough for an off-guard response. “What?”

God, this guy’s got a short attention span or something. “Prove you’re not _‘that bad’,_ ” —Lance quotes with the curl of his fingers— “and maybe… walk me home.”

Lance prays it’s on point this time, but he doesn’t have it in him to hang onto hope and stare, waiting for a response. He turns his gaze to Kosmo, who looks at him with those innocent golden eyes, and brings his free hand to grip the bike handle again in case this leads to an embarrassing getaway.

“Uh— yeah,” Lance hears. His head whips back up to meet the guy’s wide blue —purple?— eyes, and he dares to think they look somewhat eager.

“Yeah?”

The man readjusts his grip on the leash, swallows, then nods sheepishly. “Yeah I can— I can do that.”

Lance can’t help the smile that forms through a weak, giddy laugh. “Cool,” he says. Then he catches sight to the embroidered _K.K._ again: a reminder. “I should probably know your name first…”

Mister dog dude straightens, and his shoulders no longer bunch up from the chance of a scolding. “Right. Um, I’m Keith,” he— _Keith_ says.

 _Basic_ , Lance can’t help but think, _but man, does a pretty face make up for it_. “Leandro,” he returns, and takes his hand off the bike handle, abandoning that embarrassing getaway plan in favor of stretching out a hand. “But you can call me Lance.”

Keith glances down at Lance’s hand, hesitant, unintentionally puppy-eyed, and pauses his ministrations for Kosmo to take Lance’s hand. It fits nicely, although a little rough from what Lance expects to be Keith’s nervous leash-gripping habits along with disastrous skateboarding journeys.

“Nice to meet you, Lance. Despite the circumstances.” Keith’s mouth crooks up and Lance drinks in the handsome sight.

“Likewise,” Lance returns, holding onto Keith’s hand the way he used to try holding the stars. “Despite the circumstances.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And yet it lingered. Keith clouded his thoughts like no other, he was _everywhere._ Every clack on the sidewalk had Lance whipping around in hopes of seeing a skateboard and Keith’s reserved, confident presence. Rowdy dogs around the block sprouted images of Kosmo and those glowing yellow eyes. Lance’s bike chain would fall loose for the umpteenth time and all he could think of, all he could want, was for it to be from Keith’s clumsiness and not his bike’s cheap knack for falling apart. Keith was _everywhere_ in only his head—
> 
> And then he wasn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ehh the Spanish dialogue in here is on and off. Basically Keith is growing into the habit of using it more often since he’s dating Lance now.  
> —> (translations in the end notes)
> 
> I hope I did Keith some justice for dealing with ADHD. God I’ve consulted a bunch of people for that so fingers crossed that pays off, feedback is welcome though since I’ve got another chapter to go!

**1 year later**

Keith has done it _again_.

Lance finds himself standing at the kitchen counter, his face contorted in the midst of a feeling both confusing and unpleasant, staring down at a bowl of cereal has long since withered past its ideal crunch.

Basically, it’s soggy.

The pieces of cinnamon toast crunch have turned frothy and limp in their disappointing state of nakedness. Their sugar coating dissolved into the milk, and Lance can only internally squeam and shake his head at the thought of testing this food’s edibility. Gross —not impossible— but _gross_.

He defeatedly pours the bowl of cereal down the sink and pads out of the kitchen. As he treks down the hallway to Keith’s bedroom, presumably the next best option to finding him, the overhead air conditioning sends a sudden jolt down his bare spine and chest. His hands clutch tighter around the meat of his arms. Their heat will have to suffice; it’s at least a better surface than the cold kitchen counters anyway. Keith’s cozy embrace can do the trick.

Wait no, Lance is mad at him.

Right, Lance is upset with Keith’s abandoned and dying cereal. He makes sure to slow his subconscious chipper walk into something more apprehensive, like a monster slinking toward that doorknob at the end of the hall and— yeah, he’s just creeping himself out now.

When he reaches the door, there’s no doubt his dramatic self expects his entrance to earn a grand reaction, which ideally would be Keith cowering under Lance’s scowly gaze. Yet when his hand slings over the knob and whips the door open to reveal the sight of Keith’s room obscured by his squinting eyes there’s— nothing.

Well not _nothing_ exactly. He’s there alright, all charcoal-choppy hair, loose lips, a glazed stare at the computer screen ahead and of course: the notorious jiggling leg as he sits in his office chair with his head rocking along to whatever tunes are blaring in his headphones. He’s in his little zone.

Lance sighs and shuffles on over to Keith. For five whole steps, his mind actively battles the instinct to crawl in this man’s lap and have his upper half encompassed in as much warmth as his pajama-clad legs are. Keith even has a sweater on, dammit.

He’s looming over Keith by now, just on the outskirts of his vision enough to have his presence be known just by the shadow casted across Keith’s profile. Lance reaches out and slides the headphones off at the same time the other takes notice and uses his non-jiggly leg to rotate the office chair.

Lance leans down, one hand clutching the back of the chair while the other comes up to dodge Keith’s readily puckered lips.

“No hay besitos,” he says with a pout as he gently pushes Keith back, even though his boyfriend’s starry eyes begin to waver like a heartbroken kid without a Christmas present. _No kisses_. At least for like… a minute.

“ _Mwhy?_ ” Keith asks in muffled concern from behind Lance’s hand. His foot taps more rapidly against the wooden floor, albeit a quiet rhythm from the fabric of his socks. They have puppies on them, the socks, and Keith hasn’t quit wearing them to bed since Lance gifted him them on his birthday. (Save for laundry days, but he bought Keith another pair to switch off with.)

“You forgot about your cereal,” Lance answers. He moves his hand from Keith’s mouth to card a hand through his boyfriend’s hair, tugging the strands out from under the headphones’ bridge so they can seamlessly spill between each of his fingers. “Again.”

He’s not exactly sure how Keith’s thought process works. Even in the six months they’ve been together, it seems like everyday unlocks a newer part of a certain ongoing pattern in his boyfriend’s ADHD. He doesn’t mind it though, Keith is particularly affectionate when he rides out a typical burst of energy after Lance’s afternoon naps. He often awakens to Keith’s sweet kisses across his (usually bare) shoulders and up his neck, letting his hand be squeezed from that involuntary pressure that comes with Keith’s buzzing behavior.

 _"Eres un gallina,”_ he’ll tease through bubbling giggles from the more sensitive targets to Keith’s kiss attack. His fingers pinch together in a beak shape and prod across his boyfriend’s broad chest hovering over him. _“Peck peck peck.”_ Like a chicken.

And then— _“Cállate.”_ Keith swats away Lance’s mocking hand and swoops down to the spot behind his ear for another direct attack, leaving Lance no choice but to sling his arms around Keith’s waist and hold on for the ride.

From where he sits now, wallowing from a lost opportunity of revisiting that kissing frenzy, Keith curls back into Lance’s grounding touch with a sigh. He seems to revel in pressure like this. It’s almost too similar to the way Kosmo preens under their ministrations, where their blunt nails scrape along some sort of hotspot behind an ear, and it makes the dog clumsily thump his foot on the ground in excitement.

“Oh,” Keith says under his breath. His eyes halt their constant back and forth between Lance and the computer screen when the statement sets in. He cranes his neck back, Lance’s hand still pillowing his mess of hair while he gazes up through the gleaming curtain of an apology. “I’m sorry.”

Lance hates it— no, _loves_ it— wait. He’s really just indecisive. Keith is someone who should be rough around the edges, reckless where the wheels of his skateboard slam against pavement or his too-early turns rake scrapes all over his limbs. He should be hot headed and brash because the way he lives has the world whizzing past his fingertips and rarely anyone can afford to catch up, if they even bother trying.

Keith should be all those things and he _is_ , he lives off adrenaline the way Lance thrives off deep water and the oncoming waves that swallow him whole for countless, invigorating seconds.

But Keith is also _soft_. It’s in the way his dark hair fluffs up at the ends and frames the heart shaped face he has: the apples of his cheeks rising at each end of a sheepish smile, and his chest deflating under weak laughs when he’s too sleepy to feed a fire of laughter.

He’s soft like the breeze that tickles Lance’s ears and makes the edges of his t-shirt flail when they skate at nighttime, down streets bathed in gentle restaurant glows and the scent of all sorts of foods swimming in rich flavors. He used to never have the courage to ask Keith, just a friend he had a fiery passion for at the time, if they could take a rest stop somewhere for a taste of the town. Instead, his heart could only sputter along with the cacophony of cheery music or rowdy shouts from delightedly drunk passersby. And when he’d finally catch up to Keith from sheer ambition and the worn sole of his shoe, his friend would send a beaming smile his way and nothing else.

Lance didn’t need anything else though, because that was all it took. Four months into friendship and two months of something a little greater, he realized his fixation on Keith was from a feeling far more exhilarating than expected. And when the journey finally tapered to the curb in front of his friend’s house, he put two and two together _—young and stupid—_ before planting his mouth on Keith’s without even giving him the time to properly step off the skateboard. Instead Keith has made a noise of surprise, stumbled forward into the curl of Lance’s lips, and threw in his own two cents _—young and stupid—_ while steadying himself with his hands on Lance’s waist.

He remembers that cannonball beginning and it’s fizzling aftermath. How Keith led them into something more seamless and deep without sparing a single thought to it (or at least it seemed that way), along with a pace catering to this newer excitement.

 _“Te amo,”_ Lance had practically whispered through wet lips and into Keith’s panting mouth once they’d finally unlatched. He didn’t know if he could make that whisper any louder, if he even _wanted_ it to be louder, because there was only seven minutes between Keith’s riveting smile through the whipping wind and where they are now, with the taste of it in Lance’s mouth.

 _“He estado enamorado de ti,”_ Keith had returned through a rattling murmur, rough as the road beneath their dirty shoes, _“desde hace mucho tiempo.”_

And Lance had no choice but to stare, kept at bay by Keith’s secure hand against his jaw while every crevice of emotion across his face is searched by the other. Those attuned, blue-purple eyes sent Lance through a rush of deja-vu— _hanging in the great in between_.

 _“Creo que yo también,”_ Lance said.

And when Keith seemed to finally sense the love in Lance’s wonderstruck face, he readily dipped back forward and made his lips home to Lance, the same way the tides had years ago.

_I’ve been in love with you for a long time._

_I think I have too._

“It’s alright,” Lance says to Keith before foolishly breaking his own _“no kisses”_ rule and giving his boyfriend a peck. He lowers himself into Keith’s lap, the goosebumps all across his bare skin becoming too much to bear when there’s arms ready to fix that, snug in a soft crocheted sweater.

Keith chuckles under Lance’s content groan as he rubs his palms along the latter’s back. Each stroke of warmth is like another reason to hold off on starting the day, especially when the crevice of Keith’s neck is both a tempting place for his nose and lips. He sets aside the dreadful image of soggy cereal, smooches that certain spot under Keith’s jaw, then decides to forgive his rocky start since the morning cuddle makes up for it. Or noon. He tends to wake up a bit late in the summertime… 

“Should get a shirt on, babe.” Keith says amusedly as he reaches one arm around to the desk while the other stays anchored around Lance. _Click click_ — aaand he’s gone.

“Excuse me?” Lance scoffs. “I thought you loved my surfer body! Look at my surfer body.” Lance clumsily adjusts in the chair for a few awkward seconds before he’s successfully straddling Keith.

“It looks amazing, Lance,” Keith says as he continues navigating through several tabs on his screen. Several _boring_ tabs that don’t have Lance on any of them.

“ _Why_ ”—Lance reaches back and takes Keith’s hands, placing them on either shoulder— “must you _hate_ me?” He crouches to Keith’s eye level and hopes his pout reigns in guilt like no other when his boyfriend’s scattered attention finally centers on him.

He’s well aware he’s being stubborn in this situation. Perhaps he still dwells on the cereal, perhaps he’s just a sucker for Keith wearing a sweater that makes him look soft in a ridiculously sexy way. Who knows?

“Pero te amo mucho, Lala,” Keith says with one of those quiet smiles that still make Lance’s heart blunder, along with the reluctant fondness at the nickname.

“¿Me amas?” Lance presses as he prods his pointy nose along Keith’s rosy cheek.

“Si, _te amo_ , Lala.”

Lance gives (or more like takes) another smooch, slotted so precisely against Keith’s lips that it’s a feeling to mourn when Keith pulls away.

“I’m hungry,” Keith mumbles while his eyes flit back to the computer screen and he continues sifting through that endless spiral of tabs ranging from the price of surfboard wax to a POV video titled _“When You Wish Upon A Star but you were abandoned in space”_. Lance really wonders what goes on in this man’s head, especially when none of these tabs were up last night and Keith must’ve woken up not even an hour ago.

“Let’s go out for breakfast then,” he proposes as the cursor whips from one end of the screen to another, as restless as Keith’s jumpy leg that has Lance wobbling in place like a cart braving the first few tracks of a rollercoaster. He glances from that leg to the fingers that rove along the edges of his own, up to the curves of each nail where Keith subconsciously presses the pad of his pointer finger against. “We can skate there too.”

Keith pauses in his aimless scroll through his email inbox. He looks down thoughtfully with the corners of his mouth turned in a considerate pout. “Okay,” he says simply.

“Okay?” Lance straightens and Keith gives him a nod. He leaps off Keith’s lap and putters back on the cold hardwood floor, eager for a good (and fairly easy) skate under the sun. “Well then get those converse on, skater boy!” 

Keith heaves out a breath once Lance tugs him up by one of those half-sweatered hands. “How did I already know you were gonna say that…” he mumbles as they stumble over to the bedroom closet containing a couple pairs of sneakers tossed in the far corner, as well as several black and other muted color t-shirts nearly worn to the bone— that is, if fabric had bones.

He tends to get a spark of familiarity at even the ones he surely hasn’t seen before. Keith’s wardrobe is hilariously like a cartoon character’s, in which one outfit bleeds into another and they all end up looking the same. _Boringgg_ , yet he still borrows them to his heart's content. They smell like the cute, tiny yankee candle jar that hangs around the neck of the rearview mirror in Keith’s car.

On the days that follow Keith’s overnight visits to _Lance’s_ house, Krolia is pleased to see someone has somehow wrangled her son into wearing a color other than _“la muerte”,_ (or death, as another may call it) once they return.

“Are you ready, my Spanish king?” Lance asks with a smirk once Keith has hastily thrown off his sweater in exchange for one of his basic thrift shirts.

Keith sniffs, shoving on each shoe and doing up the laces. “Don’t call me that, Lance,” he mutters. 

Apparently, Keith’s dad was the descendent to some age old, Spanish royalty. But that side of his family isn’t indulged in quite as much as his mother’s, seeing as the man had passed away when Keith was still a child. Krolia had considered taking her and her son back to Korea in some mega-rich neighborhood or something, Lance can’t quite remember. What he _does_ remember is that Krolia met Matias on a cruise and _“The rest was history”_ , aka they graced the earth with a handsome son that takes forever to tie his shoes.

“What else may I call you, your highness?” Lance asks with a dramatic bow.

Keith's foot swings back down next to the edge of the bed, both shoes noticeably tied as he approaches Lance and tugs him back up to eye level. “How about _your boyfriend?_ ” he says amusedly.

Lance readily slings his arms around his _boyfriend’s_ waist and gives a considerable hum. “Well I _do_ like the sound of that…”

“Course you do.” Keith gives him a peck right on the nose, though there’s a little extra effort put into that when he has to lean on his tiptoes _just_ enough.

He lands it though, and several other kisses that may or may not be coordinated. Lance doesn’t have the time to determine that when he’s giggling from the other’s chicken-like tendencies. _Peck peck peck_.

And like all the other days he spends with Keith, Lance senses the promise of today being a good one.

  
  


_It_ is _a good day_ , Lance decides when his heels lean into his skateboard’s side with a slight creak and the narrow street turns into a wide expanse of pavement once he and Keith glide around the corner.

The sky is a brilliant blue in between hiccups of popcorn clouds that scatter to the ends of his vision like a spilled box of marbles. Every so often a puff will cruise past the sun and the vibrant, looming buildings will rest under a calm veil of shade, turning mellow just for a long enough time that Lance can haphazardly swipe the sweat off his forehead. The shade comes and goes just like the waves that lay beyond those clusters of restaurants and shops to his left. It’s a blanket drifting over the town that spares him a breath less like steam over a boiling pot of water and more like the gusts of wind that are sure to arrive come September.

It’s therapeutic. And he’s glad his boyfriend has taught him just enough about skateboarding to navigate across land in a similar swiftness he has with the ocean. He’d say it’s as relaxing as surfing, but the ground doesn’t move with him, doesn’t give way for cool water to plunge into when his muscles ache like no other. And finally—

 _“¡Andale! ¡Andale!”_ Keith shouts from ahead of him. His short ponytail flaps in the wind and his board twists and flips underneath him like they’re attached by the soul. He beckons Lance with an urgent hand and encouraging, toothy smile.

And _finally_ , Lance can’t keep up.

“ _Ergh_ ,” Lance grunts as he heaves forward by the weight of his foot. His ankle is feeling sore already. “¡Vas demasiado rápido!“

He hears Keith’s amused laughter ahead of him, figures this is payback for all the times Lance was delighted to see Keith wobbling on a surfboard and ultimately crashing at the mercy of another wave. They have an ongoing back and forth of flaunting their fortes, and he can’t say he’s any better at the cocky spirit that comes along with it.

It wasn’t always fun and games though. Before these ongoing standoffs was a steady build of _something_ between them. It was curiosity, apprehension, where Lance felt a strange interest in the tension between them, Keith wasn’t too far behind.

That first day they had met, they bid their awkward goodbyes on Lance’s doorstep and he was too sheepish for the kind of one liners he used to have no problem with using on people before, (particularly girls). _“He could be straight,”_ he had thought to himself. _“A guy would skate to impress girls_. _”_ He would know, he’d done it with surfing all the time.

And yet it lingered. Keith clouded his thoughts like no other, he was _everywhere_. Every clack on the sidewalk had Lance whipping around in hopes of seeing a skateboard and Keith’s reserved, confident presence. Rowdy dogs around the block sprouted images of Kosmo and those glowing yellow eyes. Lance’s bike chain would fall loose for the umpteenth time and all he could think of, all he could _want_ , was for it to be from Keith’s clumsiness and not his bike’s cheap knack for falling apart. Keith was _everywhere_ in only his head—

And then he wasn’t.

Another day of Lance on his board, dancing along the water across a late August sunset on the horizon, he swerved between folds of tame waves near the jut of a small cliff. Only a batch of people were around as the afternoon families were making their way back home, exhausted and spent from their time under the sun.

Lance wasn’t tired yet though. He chased the balance that surfing keeps him in, and it was something more fulfilling when the rest of his life felt like it’d been thrown off kilter.

So when he spared a glance at that stout cliff and saw a cluster of onlookers— hoodies and t-shirts with colorful jagged print across their fronts, boards— _skateboards_ hooked under their arms or propped against a leg or used as a seat, and an unmistakable mess of dark hair shivering in the wind— it was a dream come true. Or more like a _thought_ come true. Keith was watching him.

 _“Always have been,”_ Keith said on their first date. A second confession. _“I’d seen you surfing before I uh, crashed into your bike.”_

Lance likes to pick on him about it now. How Keith’s routine of Lance-watching with his skater buddies seems a bit _stalkerish_ , which it isn’t really, by now he’s well aware that this boy is just an emotionally stumped, hopeless romantic. It’s still fun to watch him squirm about it now though, especially since _Lala_ came from the skate crew’s mocking chorus of _“Ooo lala-Laaance”_ since Keith talked about him so much. What a sap, _he loves it_.

Every time Lance would spot the skate crew, _The Blades_ , at the cliff from the first time on, he’d send a cheery wave and charming smile Keith’s way. Oftentimes the other blades would give a more rollicking response: from the girls giving wild hollars to the guys flashing their bare torsos. Sometimes Lance teared up from laughter and he wonders if they ever heard it from where they stood. But what always sat with his heart the longest was Keith’s timid wave while the other hand tucked his bangs back.

Struck right to the heart, and it still does now.

Unfortunately, Lance never managed to catch up to Keith on their journey to the diner, so he has to endure that stupidly handsome smirk when he finally skids to a stop at the pillar of an archway Keith leans against.

“Don’t look at me like that you little…” Lance hesitates, both to catch his breath and also find something remotely insulting. “Ass.”

“You’re the one with the little ass here,” Keith says and gives Lance a pat on the bottom when they make their way to the entrance.

Lance huffs. “That didn’t count,” he says while opening the door. He and Keith have an ongoing game for “butt points”, which has absolutely no score system at all and they usually end up chasing each other around trying to dodge their own ass while smacking a hand out for the other.

“It really did,” Keith says as he backtracks inside, already catching onto Lance’s instincts.

Lance let’s the door shut behind him with a jingle as he slinks closer to Keith, both of them setting their skateboards in the beat up cardboard box that Dante has set out for them just behind the counter. “You have to let me make it even, babe.” He swipes out a hand but Keith shifts away just in time.

“We’re in public, Lance.”

“You literally _just—“_

"¡Mira!” Dante merrily bellows from his place behind the counter. Lance and Keith startle at the sudden shout, and their hands jolt back to themselves as if reeling from a spark of electricity. “¡Los alborotadores han vuelto!"

The locals are well aware of Dante’s reputation for his booming voice, so it’s quite unsurprising to see barely anyone swivel in his direction. Well, except for Keith, who’s foolishly left his ass unguarded.

"¡También te amamos!" Lance calls back with a friendly wave while his other hand discreetly swats Keith’s behind.

Keith scowls as they make their way to a booth near the far side of the diner. Beyond the expanse of the glass window at its side, the streets thrum with energy from friends wildly gesturing in the midst of either a heated argument or a passionate conversation, to children skipping from one cracked square of pavement to the next. The buildings around them beam bright colors until their shabby layers, like their newness has been scrubbed down to its rawest form, in a similar state as the dollhouse his mother gifted to Nadia. He cherishes it nonetheless, can’t imagine calling anything pristine a place for home even though he plans to travel outside the country just to see what interests lay beyond his comfort. Cuba is all he’s ever truly known.

Keith sits at his side instead of the seat in front of Lance. He’s not too keen on any sort of glaring light when it can be avoided, and the moments Lance has seen him in such an environment, the boy is more restless and scowly than ever. Keith says it’s just another sensory thing, but Lance likes to entertain the idea that his boyfriend is somehow a vampire. He does have the pointy teeth after all, though they’re more adorable than intimidating.

He gets it though. Or at least he’d like to think he does. But like before, something new about the way Keith functions is uncovered or expanded upon everyday. There’s moments where Keith’s skin seems to crawl when the day turns more mundane than usual, and his desire to live life fast and not excruciatingly slow (or normal for Lance) is unavoidable.

Keith’s impulsive and it just— it worries Lance. As much as anyone would like to nitpick their own functionality and toss away the taxing aspects, it’s just not like that and unfortunately he took longer to learn. Because Keith playing with his fingertips or resiliently hopping back on the surfboard also means other moments. Like suddenly crashing when they reach home, (either house), and seeing his boyfriend stare at the bright lockscreen of his phone until it shuts off. Still thinking, there’s just no way he’ll always catch up to a train of thought that shoots ten steps ahead.

A couple months into their relationship, Lance can recall trying to ease Keith into simply laying down with him, _relaxing_. _“You’ve been up and about for a while, just take a nap with me,”_ he’d said. But Keith just _couldn’t_ , and after Lance dozed off figuring the boy will find something to preoccupy him, he woke up an hour later to a phone call from one of the blades: Acxa. Keith broke his wrist trying to land a new trick he’d been adamant about nailing all day.

So maybe it took a broken wrist for Lance to figure _“Alright, perhaps this guy can’t be settled down with some lavender oil or a makeout sesh, no biggie”_. And Keith doesn’t need adult supervision, but Lance likes to think his own mind is just as creative and adventurous, so perhaps he takes it upon himself to tag along more often instead of moaning and groaning. And, uh, _also_ sprain his own wrist when he tries landing a trick himself. Whatever, Keith isn’t the only impulsive one so it may as well be a competition.

“¿Vas a comerte tu almuerzo?” He asks Keith and nudges the plate of food closer. His theory of waking up late was proven correct, since it _is_ currently lunchtime: 1pm the last time he checked.

Keith takes a moment to sink back into reality after Lance gives him a couple pats from where his arm rests across the back of the booth. Their hooked ankles continue swinging together, and Keith finally lifts his head from Lance’s shoulder with a sigh.

"Sí,” he mutters before leaning over to pick up the frita cubana. “Solo estaba pensando.”

Lance hums and scoops up his own spoonful of rice, rubbing his hand along Keith’s back as they take their own bites. They’re both sweaty, but he’s also like, the best boyfriend in the world. (Yes that’s also a competition, and yes he is winning.)

“About your handsome boyfriend I presume?” Lance asks with a smirk. He watches Keith roll his eyes as his jaw works through a few bites.

His face turns soft though when he sets down the frita, and he glances at Lance with something subtle; whether it’s doubt or sheepishness, Lance can’t say.

“Kind of,” Keith admits. His cheeks turn pink under the sliver of sunlight that Lance’s shadow doesn’t shield. “My mom was talking about… traveling,” he says as his blunt nails press against the tabletop.

Lance feels his face fall. _Traveling_ — as in what, exactly? Is Krolia’s instinct and longing for home back in Korea starting to win the best of her? Is Keith… Is Keith considering that opportunity? A home somewhere else; somewhere far as fuck away from whatever kind of future Lance can pick from his array of limited options.

He glances out the window with a bubbling sense of shame and embarrassment creeping up his throat. His mind conjures up the picture of a mansion in Korea: grand and decorated with intricate architecture dedicated to honor the Kogane family and their crazy streak of success over their companies founded by sheer dedication. It’s hardly comparable to the flowers and shrubs withering in the sun out here, and the rusty cars that noisily clatter with weak engines down streets scattered across town that sport splotches of cracked cement like broken mirrors. Grand windows versus the musty sills in the house his family had scraped just enough money together to afford; divine fabric with swirling designs versus hand-me-downs from his lanky brothers— even a few from his sisters; family portraits versus dusty frames in the hallway. _Pristine_ versus… this.

Keith’s brows knit together under fleeting concern, and it’s just then that Lance realizes the pout his own mouth has tugged into. “I’m not leaving you, Lance,” Keith says in confidence with a hand flying out to grasp his knee. Their swinging ankles slow to a more gradual rhythm underneath the booth’s seat, a steady pendulum to aid Keith’s ongoing drive for movement and Lance’s want for comfort. “I want you to meet my family.”

A part of Lance short circuits. Or several parts, he should say. His throat catches, spiraling thoughts clammer to a stop, leg stiffening as the other boy squirms in place. “You’re— with your mom?” he asks, though it’s one of the more irrelevant details, his mind needs a moment to sweep all these little opportunities into a more manageable pile. “Over where they, like, live in…” 

“Korea.” Keith finishes carefully. “But visiting them is still new to me too and you don’t have to come along if you want. Mom just suggested it and you mentioned wanting to go around and…” Keith grunts and rubs a hand down his face. _“Definitely bad for his skin,”_ Lance can’t help but think. “I know it’s really sudden and you don’t _have_ to. I was just thinking—“

“Hey, hold on Keith just…” Lance shakes his head and lets out a hiccuped laugh. “You’re going a little fast there, mister speedy. I’m still processing.”

Keith’s face pinches and his head ducks back into glaring at the table. It’s his thinking face. Okay well _actually_ he’s got a lot of those considering the circumstances but Lance can at least recognize this one. There’s a need for articulation, something more to say but his boyfriend is still grasping together strings of sentences into something coherent enough to say. Lance waits.

“Cuba is my home too,” Keith says with meaning. His hand lifts back up to the table to continue rapping his nails on the surface with no constant beat. “Moving away is— it’s not—“ he puffs out a breath and looks back to Lance. “You’re what I have. And I’m not just gonna abandon that.”

And Lance suddenly feels like a fool. A lucky one, nonetheless. He sees Keith’s loose, faded t-shirt, and the way his jeans are sliced at the knees with drooping edges, and the scuff marks on his converse that press so faithfully against Lance’s matching pair. He sees how there’s no beginning or end to their appearance and how they live amongst that bustling crowd beyond the windows of Dante’s beloved diner. Keith is quite unlike the image of the Kogane family Lance has hung onto; he wonders if there’s a chance the other relatives are somewhat the same. After all, Krolia’s caught on well during the McClain dinners she’s been invited to, even past her initially unsettling timidity.

“And it’s the same for me,” Lance says as he reaches a hand up and tucks those stray tufts of hair behind Keith’s ear. He feels nostalgic of their beginnings: that adorably shy wave with the hair tuck. “Tú eres mi hogar, Keith.”

Keith shrinks a little with Lance’s little display of affection, pretty hypocritical considering the ass smack earlier but whatever. Lance chuckles.

“You’re my home too,” Keith responds.

Lance wonders when the time will come in which he solves that mystery of how Keith’s eyes project something so _beyond_ Lance’s understanding. A great mystery like the terrifying night sky that thrills his curiosity.

Except for this, he’s not afraid, his interest has never tamed, and Keith has given Lance a whole home that the sky couldn’t before.

 _“Te amo,”_ Lance says in contrast to the first time he hurdled into a chance at kissing his best friend. Now his _boyfriend_ , thank you very much. “Now give me a kiss.”

Keith looks around the diner, even peeks over behind the booth, before leaning forward and pressing a chaste peck to Lance’s lips.

“No, do another,” Lance insists.

“I’m not giving you another, you ass.”

“Just three and I’ll let you off… for a bit.”

Keith glares at him but the curl of his mouth is still evident and teeth flash from an open and defeated smile. “I hate you.” His breath puffs out to Lance’s waiting lips before pressing against the seams. A head tilt, a drag, Lance finds love under pressure and between each quiet clack. His tongue slips out discreetly, and as predicted—

“Need I repeat myself, McClain?” Keith swats him away and Lance catches one more kiss against his squished rosy cheek.

“I don’t know you’re quite tempting, Mister Kogane,” Lance chimes nonchalantly while Keith side eyes him and sips his drink.

Keith wordlessly pats his thigh, sets down his drink, then lets out a breath. “Save it for home.”

And Lance looks forward to it.

_Home._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> help with translations came from twt friends
> 
>  **“No hay besitos”** = No kisses  
>  **“Eres un gallina”** = You’re a chicken (lol)  
>  **“Cállate”** = Shut up  
>  **“Te amo”** = I love you  
>  **“He estado enamorado de ti desde hace mucho tiempo”** = I’ve been in love with you for a long time  
>  **“Creo que yo también”** = I think I have too  
>  **“Pero te amo mucho, Lala”** = But I love you so much, Lala (/Lance)  
>  **“¿Me amas?”** = You love me?  
>  **“Si, te amo, Lala”** = Yes, I love you Lala  
>  **“¡Andale! ¡Andale!”** = “Come on! Come on!”  
>  **“¡Vas demasiado rápido!“** = You’re going too fast!  
>  **“¡Mira! ¡Los alborotadores han vuelto!"** = Look! The troublemakers are back!  
>  **"¡También te amamos!"** = We love you too!  
>  **“¿Vas a comerte tu almuerzo?”** = Are you gonna eat your lunch?  
>  **“Si, solo estaba pensando.”** = Yeah, I was just thinking  
>  **“Tú eres mi hogar, Keith.”** = You’re my home, Keith

**Author's Note:**

> exclusive fics on [my instagram](https://instagram.com/arcadevia?igshid=1bqu2rmbht9gq)
> 
> The song this fic is named after is Collide by Tiana Major9


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